RECURRING
By Ella Leith
And it doesn't matter how good
I am (no)
I try to be
I know where I went last night
and all the nights before
I know the wild coast on which I stood
I know all that I did and am.
I am the raker on the shore
where they herd the children into the sea.
And I let them. And I watch them
as they tumble in the surge
as their bones are rolled clean
as their eyes
rubies, sapphires, emeralds
scoured by the waves
rattle like pebbles onto the sands.
And I rake them up.
That is what I am.
And it doesn't matter how
in my waking hours
I try to be good
I try to keep my hands clean
Light is my touch on the world
I know what jewels these coward's hands have held.
And I know come night
I'll walk the sands again
and I won't stop them when they come
(and they always come)
and I'll sorrow for the sighs I hear in the surf
and I'll weep for the waving children who will never reach shore
and still I'll rake their gemstone eyes from the foam
roll them in my palms add them to my cache.
Do I owe it to the waking world to be braver than I am,
knowing what I am?